


one other year; a hundred flags flying

by Rethira



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M, Multi, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:36:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9409721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rethira/pseuds/Rethira
Summary: “Now, listen closely,” Ardyn says. “Once upon a time, there existed a great kingdom called Lucis.” He tuts at his companion’s growl. “Don't be like that! If you don't want to hear the story, then just leave. There's absolutely no call to be so rude.”A moment passes in silence. His dear companion does not leave, but still makes no move to join him on the bed. A tragedy if ever there was one. Still, Ardyn will survive. “That's better. Now, where was I?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> i want to thank noah for betaing for me!
> 
> uh also, please be aware that the relationship + possibly the character tags will be updated when i post part 2 these are just... the tags for part 1
> 
> kind of very very very loosely inspired by [this kink meme prompt](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/841.html?thread=147273#cmt147273) but yeah, it got super away from me
> 
> title from florence + the machine's ffxv piece, [too much is never enough](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/florencethemachine/toomuchisneverenough.html%22)

Once upon a time, there existed a great kingdom called Lucis. Bathed in the Light of the Crystal, Lucis had enjoyed prosperity for years beyond counting. Lucis was no mighty kingdom, and had no great armies with which to defend its borders, and the Crystal was a treasure coveted by many, so I cannot say that Lucis had known true peace in all its years, but under the Light of the Crystal all people there flourished, and in that way were so blessed.

But Lucis’ prosperity was not to last forever.

 

Regis is already awake. He’s still sleeping poorly, even now that Noctis is newly born. Clarus dozes beside him in their bed, and all should be fine in the kingdom. But the night feels suddenly darker than it should, the world stranger than it ever has before, and Regis is new enough a father that he slips easily from bed and goes to Noctis’ nursery and-

There is a man standing beside Noctis’ cradle. He’s smiling down at Noctis, still sleeping, and there is something in his smile that chills Regis to his very bones.

The man looks up and he says, almost apologetically, “He will not wake, King Regis. He will sleep… and so will the Crystal.” The man bows, and is gone, and Noctis sleeps on.

Clarus wakes only slowly, and Gladiolus hardly rouses. The rest of the Citadel will not stir at all. It must be the same across all Lucis.

“What can we do?” Clarus asks, yawning, cradling Gladio in his arms as Regis holds Noctis.

“I will take him to the Crystal,” Regis says, staring down at Noctis’ peaceful face. He forces his voice not to tremble. “Its Light may not be entirely gone.”

And Clarus must know that that is more than slightly a lie. He _must_ know. But he bows his head, then presses his lips to Regis’ forehead, and murmurs, “By Shiva’s Grace.” He follows Regis to the door to the Crystal, clutches Gladio tighter to his chest – and Regis cannot leave him beyond the doors without kissing him again, brief and tearing and desperate.

“I will find a way to undo this,” Regis promises, quiet, against Clarus’ mouth.

Clarus rubs the back of Regis’ neck. “I do not doubt it,” he admits.

Regis allows himself a moment longer, and then forces himself to stride onward, into the Crystal’s chamber. The doors swing shut behind him, and there seems something final about it.

Noctis does not stir as they approach the darkened Crystal. It flickers only slightly when Regis approaches, but even that is more than he had hoped.

It is on this moment that Regis fumbles for words. But how, after all, do you offer a plea to the gods?

 

(they take pity, perhaps. regis cannot say, later

but, as he stands with one hand flat to the crystal, he hears shiva’s voice – and he _knows_ it is shiva’s voice, though he cannot say how

she says, _we hear you, o king blessèd by Light. your child shall_ _wake, and he will live four years for every one of us that hears your plea before he sleeps this wakeless sleep again_

it is more than regis would have asked. would have dreamt of. but before he can even begin to offer thanks, shiva speaks again  
_  
a price must be paid_ , she murmurs

she does not even need to ask. anything. anything)

 

Noctis wakes up, and begins to cry.

 

Regis walks stiffly back to their chambers, Noctis crying against his shoulder the entire time. He’s not particularly loud, but still loud enough that some people rouse as their small procession hurry past – with Gladio half-awake and grumpy in his arms, all Clarus must do is offer each of them a tired smile and that’s enough to send them back to bed.

Cor’s dressed and waiting outside his room even before they reach it. Clarus doesn’t smile at him.

“We’ll talk after the children are in bed,” Regis says. Cor nods, and falls in behind them; thankfully it is only a little further to the royal chambers, and they pass few people along the way.

Gladio settles back to sleep easily enough, blankets up to his chin and a hug goodnight from both Regis and Clarus, but Noctis continues to cry softly, so Regis just tucks him against his chest and sits wearily on the end of the bed. He rubs the ring on his finger with his thumb, an old habit.

Clarus kneels before him. He rests his hand on Regis’ knee. “Regis?” he asks, and Regis can hear every question Clarus daren’t speak in that single word.

Regis takes a breath. “I,” he starts, “have made a deal with the gods.” He covers Clarus’ hand with his own. “We have… we have time. Noctis has time. But,” and he cannot help squeezing Clarus’ hand now, “he will fall to the cursed sleep again. We cannot stop it.”

For a moment, Regis sees Clarus shatter. But then he raises his head and is the King’s Shield once more, eyes hardened though they shine with unshed tears.

Clarus asks, and his voice hardly trembles, “And what did the gods ask of you in return?”

Ah. Clarus understands. He always has. Regis smiles, gently. “They could not sever his connection to the Crystal,” and even as the realisation dawns in Clarus’ eyes Regis continues, “but they could transfer it, for a time. Only until he sleeps again.” And of course, Clarus shatters again, for he knows well the burden the Crystal places upon a mortal body. Regis squeezes his hand again, the only comfort he can give. “I promised them anything, Clarus.”

“ _Anything_ ,” Clarus whispers, and Regis knows he would have promised the same.

They stay like that a moment longer, Noctis finally quieting between both his fathers, until Cor delicately clears his throat. He shifts awkwardly, still in the doorway to the nursery, and Regis is briefly grateful that he gave them that small privacy.

“My thanks for your patience, Marshal,” Regis says, as Clarus rises to his feet. “You heard most of what I said?” Regis asks. At Cor’s nod, he continues, “Then you should know this; a man entered these rooms tonight. I know not how. He was….” Regis struggles for words. He shakes his head, giving up for the moment. “He stood… he stood there,” and Regis gestures towards Noctis’ cradle, “and he told me that Noctis would not wake, and neither would the Crystal.” Regis does not have words to describe how the world felt in that moment. “Only Clarus would wake up.”  
_  
That_ seems to alarm Cor. “Majesty? I was roused by Prince Noctis but….”

“As I said, Marshal,” Regis says. “So long as Noctis slept, so too did everyone else in the Citadel, save myself and Clarus.” Regis sighs, softly, and looks down at Noctis. Clarus rests his hand on Regis’ shoulder. “And so shall it be again.”

 

There is little to be done in the moment; Cor tightens the guard on the Citadel in case the man returns, now that it is obvious Noctis no longer sleeps. It is hardly a week since Noctis’ birth, so it is no great surprise to anyone that Regis keeps him close by, and Clarus’ duties rarely take him from Regis’ side anyway. That Cor also stays close by… well, any new parent is bound to be a little protective, and a King more so than most.

But the mysterious man makes no reappearance over the next few days, or weeks, or months. All, it seems, is well in Lucis.

 

Some little time before Noctis’ second birthday, there is a border skirmish between Lucis and Niflheim. Emperor Iedolas Aldercapt _claims_ Lucian forces invaded Imperial territory – a lie if ever Regis heard one – but if Regis wishes to avoid outright war then….

Clarus offers to go alone. But Regis shakes his head and tells him, “We must not show weakness,” and turns to Cor and says, “I entrust the children to your care.”

Cor bows his head, promises, “I will protect them and Lucis both in your absence, Majesty.”

“There is no-one else we would trust over you,” Clarus assures him, but it’s plain even then that Cor is worried. Oddly, Regis finds himself further reassured by that; like as not, Cor will hardly let Noctis or Gladio out of his sight the entire time they’re gone.

Gladio clutches at Cor’s leg as they leave, a mutinous look on his face. Noctis is in Cor’s arms looking slightly bewildered by all the fuss. It isn’t until the transport doors start to shut around Regis and Clarus that Noctis starts to squirm and reach for them, little face creased with sudden alarm. Regis is too far away to hear what Cor says, too far away to hear if Noctis is crying, especially over the noise of the airship’s engines, but he can still see Noctis’ tiny little hand reaching out as if to pull him back.

Regis takes half a step forward, unthinking, and it’s only Clarus’ arm on Regis’ elbow that makes him stop.

“We can’t,” Clarus says, softly, and he sounds like he’s forcing the words from his throat, as if it’s agony to even _say_ them. He looks… he looks as Regis feels.

Regis makes himself straighten. Forces himself to hold his head high. “You’re right, of course.”

When Regis looks back, he cannot even see the Citadel anymore.

 

Gladio doesn’t want to go to bed without a bedtime story from his father, and sits up in bed glaring sleepily at Cor like it’s his fault entirely for Clarus’ absence. Noctis has finally worn himself out from crying, and fallen into an unhappy sleep – his first real night away from his parents, and it’s… well, it could be worse.

“I want,” Gladio repeats, slowly but clearly, “ _my_ Dad.” He blinks blearily up at Cor, and folds his arms. “I don’t want,” and his head lolls a little, as a wave of tiredness seems to overcome him, “don’t want _Cor_.”

Cor sighs, again, and tucks the covers up around Gladio, despite Gladio’s wordless noise of protest. “Your father and his Majesty will both be back soon, I promise. Until then, they’ve asked me to look after you and Noctis.” Gladio wrinkles his nose, adorably, and eyes his brother suspiciously. Noctis frowns in his sleep. “While they’re gone, perhaps I can read to you instead?” Cor suggests, for the umpteenth time – Gladio’s tired enough that Cor thinks he’ll fall asleep near as soon as a book is opened, but by this point it’s the principle of the thing.

“No,” Gladio says, mutinously, clutching his teddy bear to his chest. “Want my Dad.” His lip starts to wobble worryingly, and if _he_ starts crying he’s certain to wake up Noctis and then they’ll both be sobbing and-

“Shhh,” Cor says, and perhaps he’s starting to sound a little desperate. “It’s just a few days, Gladio,” Cor murmurs, as gently as he can, like a few days doesn’t sound like an eternity to a child at that age, “and then I’m sure he’ll read to you as much as you like.”

Gladio sniffles and mumbles, “You promise?”

Something like relief blooms in Cor’s chest. “I promise.”

“Okay,” Gladio says, and with a final sort of nod, _finally_ lays his head down on his pillow and closes his eyes. Within seconds, he’s fast asleep, and Cor breaths out a long overdue sigh of relief.

Noctis doesn’t wake up as Cor carefully tucks him into bed. He curls around his cuddly fish, hiccups in his sleep, but doesn’t wake up. Cor pats his head, as he’s often seen King Regis do, and Noctis makes a somewhat happier noise, relaxing a little.

Cor’s already resigned himself to a sleepless few nights during the King’s absence, and there’s always work to be done, so he settles at – and it makes his stomach clench – at the King’s desk, still close enough to the nursery to hear any untoward noises, and starts on his leftover paperwork.

He must doze off eventually. No man can stay awake forever, not even Cor the Immortal. But when Cor wakes, for a moment he’s disoriented – more than usual. He’s- he’s not slept in the royal chambers before, of course not, but there’s something off about them. And, he thinks back to the King’s description of _that_ night, has staggered to his feet and has his sword half drawn even before he’s reached the nursery.

There is a man in the nursery. He looks up as Cor enters, smiles, and says, “Oh, do be careful. You wouldn’t want to wake the children, would you, Marshal? You had _such_ a time getting them both to sleep, after all.”

He’s standing right beside Noctis’ crib. There’s no room for Cor to swing a sword in here. No room to fight without possibly injuring Noctis or Gladio. And with the intruder standing beside Noctis-

The man just smiles, indulgent, as Cor crosses the room slowly to stand on the other side of Noctis’ crib. Cor’s wracked with indecision when he gets there; would Noctis be safer in his arms, or still in the crib? It would be awkward to hold Noctis one handed, he could drop him if it turned into a fight, but if Cor could get Noctis away-

“There’s no need to be so concerned,” the man says, still smiling. His eyes glint strangely in the darkness. “I mean absolutely no harm to our young Prince here… indeed, your King went quite far out of his way to keep little Prince Noctis safe, didn’t he?”

Cor leans down, keeps his grip tight on his sword and his eyes on the intruder. He scoops Noctis up one-handed, tucks him against his chest, thankful for the moment that Noctis has always been a heavy sleeper.

“What do you want with Prince Noctis?” Cor asks, taking a step back towards Gladio’s bed.

The man _laughs_. “Oh, there’s no need to be like that now, is there? Can’t I visit my very favourite sleeping Prince? Oh, I suppose I need an invitation first – well, _tragically_ ,” and he moves like he’s boneless, theatrically pressing a hand to his face and flapping an arm, “my invitation must have gotten lost.”

It’s all so much noise. Doesn’t tell Cor anything, just gives him time to move between this man and Gladio. That’s the best Cor can hope for, under the circumstances.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Cor bites out, hoisting Noctis up more firmly against his shoulder. Noctis shifts in his sleep – he’s still got his toy fish clutched in his hand, and its mashed between him and Cor’s shirt now.

The man sighs and shakes his head. “But,” he whines, “I don’t _want_ to. How about this, Cor – may I call you Cor? I’m going to call you Cor. How about this? I will answer a _different_ question! One I know the lovely Regis is just _dying_ to know the answer to.”

“What question?” Cor snaps, hugging Noctis tighter.

And the man leans across Noctis’ crib, and seems to come closer and closer and closer, until he’s right in Cor’s face, his breath cool on Cor’s skin and- Cor can’t seem to move to shove him away, can’t move his sword arm to swipe him aside, can’t even move to turn Noctis away from him-

“My name,” the man says, softer than a whisper, gentler than a sigh, “is _Ardyn Lucis Caelum_.”

 

Cor wakes up the next morning, half on Gladio’s bed with Noctis still tucked against his shoulder and Gladio just waking up beside him.

The only sign that Ardyn Lucis Caelum was there at all is Cor’s sword; he finds it placed squarely in the centre of the King’s desk, neatly sheathed.

 

Lucis does not go to war with Niflheim.

Yet.

 

(there is no record of any ardyn lucis caelum)

 

“Don’t fuss so,” Regis tells Clarus, for what must be the tenth time that day, as he bats his hand away. “I’m not even thirty-five yet.”

Clarus gets that look on his face whenever Regis mentions his age. “Regis,” he starts.

“Don’t,” Regis interrupts, but Clarus puts a hand over Regis’ mouth.

“Be that as it may,” Clarus says, “you know as well as I that the Crystal ages you beyond your years.” He sighs heavily and glances down, briefly, to Regis’ once more swollen stomach. “I want her as much as you do, but… do not ask me not to worry. For the both of you.”

“Noctis was fine,” Regis points out. Noctis _is_ fine. He just… sleeps a lot. They don’t… they don’t talk about _why_. Not really.

Clarus doesn’t say that Regis was younger then, although he was, or that they’d planned for Noctis, although they had. He just sighs again and says, “You were only bound to the Crystal once over, then,” and brushes his thumb through the greying hair at Regis’ temples.

“I’ll be fine,” Regis says, “ _we’ll_ be fine. Even… even with _that_ I’m not that old yet.”

Clarus bows his head, as if he doesn’t want Regis to see his eyes. “Even if you say that,” he murmurs, “I cannot help but worry. Just let me, Regis. Let me worry for you all – you and her, Gladio and,” Clarus’ voice trembles, as always, “Noctis.”

They’re alone for once. Gladio’s with his tutor, and Cor’s minding Noctis for the moment. So Regis can allow himself to simply be _Regis_ and not the king, and to pull Clarus to his chest. He does not speak, merely holds to his husband, and feels his heart race along in his chest. Time slipping through his fingers.

Sometimes, on the very edges of sleep, Regis wonders if he will even live to see Noctis fall to the wakeless sleep again. The ring seems to grow heavier on his finger with each passing day.

“I’ve been thinking of names for her,” Regis says, quietly. His nose is mostly buried in Clarus’ hair. “What do you think of Iris?”

Clarus hums and murmurs, “Iris Lucis Caelum… sounds good.”

Regis shakes his head a little. “No,” and his throat feels tight and thick when he swallows, “Iris Amicitia sounds better.”

 

The party for Noctis’ fourth birthday is just as lavish an occasion as for prior birthdays, although the King looks…. Cor hasn’t asked, but it’s plain enough to him that the gods have never made clear _how_ long Noctis will have. This could be Noctis’ last birthday, for all they know. Even so, King Regis seems determined to make it a happy occasion, though it may very well be one of the last days he or Clarus have with their son.

Cor… Cor isn’t sure he could do the same, in their position.

But now isn’t the time to be thinking of such things. Noctis at least seems largely pleased by the celebrations. The only hiccup so far had involved getting him dressed for the occasion; Noctis already seems to have lost the shoes somewhere, but there’s a delighted smile on his face as he’s served _another_ piece of cake, so no-one seems to take any notice. Beside him little Iris mashes her food half onto her face and half onto her dress, seeming equally delighted by both, even as Gladio tries to stop her.

Cor’s momentarily distracted from the royal table by a clatter from a nearby table – just a glass knocked over by a slightly too tipsy reveller, and Cor nods to one of his men to have the man in question removed for the moment. Despite the largely relaxed atmosphere, some strange tension seems to be building in the air. It may just be the King’s own anxiety, drawing on the Crystal, and Cor hopes to the gods it is merely that, but it has the adults nervously drinking more, the children running faster, playing harder, and everyone looking over their shoulders.

It’s very nearly a relief when King Regis stands and calls for music, for dancing. _Some_ of the nervous tension leeches from the air as Noctis claps his hands and Iris shrieks with delight. People pair up all over the room, adults and children alike – the young Scientia heir is nudged unsubtly towards the royal table just as the music starts, but goes ignored by Noctis for the moment – and Cor eases back against the wall, raking his eyes across the assembly.

No-one asks Cor to dance. It’s clear enough he’s on duty, and he doesn’t dance anyway.

The first dance passes quickly; up at the royal table, Clarus points out Ignis Scientia to Noctis, and they awkwardly make their way down from the table together. The other dancers leave a respectful space around Noctis as he and Ignis stumble through the steps together, and it certainly makes it easier for Cor to watch them, though surely the King and Clarus must be doing the same.

“… so cute,” someone says, presumably of Noctis and Ignis. Cor glances away from the two of them for a moment, scans the room and-

It’s not so much the colour of the man’s hair he recognises, although it is distinctive to say the least. But the bottom of Cor’s stomach seems to fall out as soon as he sets eyes on him, and the world feels turned inside out and Cor _knows_.

“Ardyn,” he manages to force out, and then the man himself is at his elbow, as if he belongs there. He’d been across the room only a bare moment earlier. Cor hadn’t seen him move.

“You called?” he asks, curling his hand around Cor’s arm _familiarly_ , his other hand holding a champagne flute. “I suppose you want to dance,” and Ardyn sighs as if he’s being terribly put upon, and knocks the champagne back in one ill-advised gulp. “Well, I suppose I can indulge you. This _is_ a party, after all.”

Cor can’t break Ardyn’s grip on his elbow, and he finds himself following Ardyn despite his efforts to resist. He tries to dig in his heels, throw his weight back, but all that earns him is a moue of disappointment thrown over Ardyn’s shoulder – not even a chastisement. The other people move aside for Ardyn as if they’re on strings, not looking at him or Cor, just parting around the pair of them and then closing again behind them.

“I don’t dance,” Cor grinds out, still struggling to free himself. A glance up towards the King shows him half standing, face drawn and pale, one hand closed over his ring. He’s looking towards them but- there’s something wrong. There’s something _wrong_.

“Nonsense,” Ardyn scoffs, catching Cor’s hand with his own and pulling it firmly around to rest on his hip. He laces the fingers of their other hands together, and his smile sends chills down Cor’s spine. “Of _course_ you dance, Cor.”

The music speeds up – when had it slowed down? – and Ardyn leads and Cor’s feet _know_ where to move, and the other dancers are a blur of black and white and green and gold, and Ardyn smiles up at Cor and when they stop they’re stood right beside Noctis and that’s-

“ _Cor_ ,” the King shouts, and he sounds so very, _very_ far away, as Ardyn kneels beside Noctis.

Noctis blinks at Ardyn and Ardyn asks, “Now, Prince Noctis, unless I’m very much mistaken, when you woke up this morning you found a _very_ special present waiting for you, didn’t you?”

Noctis clutches at Ignis’ sleeve, takes a little step back, but he nods. Beside him, Ignis stands frozen. Cor does not even think Ignis is breathing.

Ardyn smiles widely, delightedly. “Wonderful!” he crows, and claps his hands together. “May I see it?”

Noctis looks up, very quickly, at Cor. But as long as he’s known Cor, Cor has been _safe_. Cor has been trusted. Why should now be any different?

“Okay,” Noctis says, and produces from his sleeve a tiny statuette. It takes Cor a moment to place it, but it looks an awful lot like the pictures of _Titan_ he’s seen in the Cosmogony.

Ardyn nods, fairly thrums with satisfaction. “Thank you very much, Noctis.” He bows his head, just this side of mocking – not something a child would notice – and gets to his feet. “And a very happy birthday to you, little Prince.” Noctis ducks further behind Ignis, even as Ardyn reaches for Cor and pulls him back towards the other dancers.

Cor half turns from Ardyn’s embrace, meets Noctis’ eyes and- “Go to your father,” Cor manages to say, at last, before Ardyn whirls him away, and he is lost.

 

Noctis comes running up the stairs, young Ignis Scientia just behind him, pale-faced. He all but throws himself into Regis’ arms and sobs, “There’s something wrong with Cor!”

It’s not like Regis couldn’t tell. As soon as _that man_ had appeared, and started hauling Cor across the floor Regis had known something wasn’t right. Cor wasn’t the kind of man to let himself be manhandled like that, especially so by someone he knew was dangerous. But Noctis is sobbing in his arms, and young Ignis looking shaken and alarmed at the end of the table and-

“I can’t see them,” Clarus says, scanning the crowd, and that should be _impossible_ , Cor’s hardly a short man and- and with that hair _Ardyn’s_ not inconspicuous. “I can’t _see them_ , Regis,” Clarus repeats, and he turns from the balcony and starts for the stairs. “Stay here,” Clarus orders, and then he’s gone too, leaving Regis with now four frightened and upset children.

Ignis shifts awkwardly and glances back towards the stairs. His family is nowhere to be seen.

“Please,” Regis says, as calmly as he can, “sit. Gladiolus, make some room for Ignis.” It’s not necessary – there’s plenty of room for Ignis to sit wherever he pleases, but Ignis looks thankfully in Gladio’s direction and hurries over to sit beside him. Gladio starts to whisper something to him – Regis has some little notion that the two are, or were, on the way to becoming friends – and Regis pats Noctis’ back. “Noct,” he says, gently, “I’m just going to check on Iris, and then I’d like you to tell me what happened. Is that okay?”

Noctis sniffles, but nods against Regis’ shoulder. Luckily, Iris seems only slightly bothered by the… well. She’s still more interested in her food and toys than anything else, so all Regis needs to do is remind Gladio to keep an eye on her. Gladio huffs, just a little, but he adores his little sister and everyone knows it.

Regis casts an eye across the dance floor – Clarus is weaving through them, dodging here and there. They hardly seem aware of him. Whatever magic Ardyn’s using, it seems as strong as, if not stronger than that of the Crystal’s. There’s still no obvious sign of Cor or Ardyn himself, so Regis sits carefully at the edge of the balcony and props Noctis up in his lap.

“Now,” he starts, “why don’t you tell me what happened?” Noctis trembles and shakes his head. He shifts and something in his hand digs into Regis’ shoulder. “Noct, what have you got there?” Regis asks, doing his best to keep himself calm.

Noctis sits up a little and holds out his hand. It’s a little figurine of the Archaean; exquisitely detailed, and full of magic. Noctis mumbles, so quietly Regis can hardly hear him over the music, “The strange man wanted to see it.” Noctis sniffs again. “I just found it this morning!”

“Shh,” Regis murmurs, wrapping his arms around him. “You did nothing wrong, Noctis.”

“But Cor was- there was something wrong with Cor! He just _stood_ there, and then he told me to go to you, and that man-” Noctis protests, clutching at Regis’ clothes.

“Noctis,” Regis says, and Noctis falls silent. “Listen to me. You did nothing wrong. That man is… he’s dangerous, Noctis, and if you see him again, you mustn’t trust him. But, as you could tell, he can do strange things.”

“Like with Cor,” Noctis whispers, voice wobbly. He blinks, his eyes filling up with tears, and asks, “Will Cor be okay?”

And Regis tries not to lie. A King should tell the truth to his subjects. A father should tell the truth to his children. But here and now, Regis just wipes the falling tears from Noctis’ face and says, “Of course he will,” though he cannot know for certain.

 

Clarus finds Cor on a bench not far from the gardens, asleep, with his jacket folded beneath his head. No matter how Cor tries, he can remember nothing after the moment he told Noctis to return to his father.

 

Noctis’ fifth birthday is a quieter affair, at his own insistence. He demands that Cor sit at the royal table with the rest of the family and Ignis, and there’s no dancing whatsoever, much to Iris’ disappointment.

If Ardyn _does_ come, then none of them notice him amongst the crowd.

Regis doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.

 

Queen Sylva Nox Fleuret of Tenebrae dies when Noctis is seven.

She had always been a friend to Lucis, and to Regis personally. Losing her, especially while her children are still so young – Ravus is fifteen, and Lunafreya only eleven – feels a cruel blow. It’s not a decision Regis makes lightly, but, the children are old enough now, and little safer left behind than taken with him and Clarus, if past experience has taught them anything.

“Are you sure?” Clarus asks, anyway, after Regis has sent the children to choose their very favourite things to take with them on a trip to Tenebrae.

Regis rubs at his ring, and the bridge of his nose. “Noctis cannot stay locked up in the Citadel forever,” he says, “and Gladio already begins to chafe. No, a trip will do them both good, and Iris too, though I wish it were under happier circumstances.”

Clarus leans down to brush his lips against Regis’ scarred temple. “I had better go and find Gladio and Noct,” he murmurs, reluctantly, “before they start trying to shove poor Ignis into a suitcase.”

Regis chuckles, leaning into him. “Somehow, I think Ignis would take a rather dim view of that,” he replies, reaching up to tangle his fingers together with Clarus’.

Clarus hums thoughtfully. “Do you think,” he starts, his voice taking on a considering tone, “he’ll be all right for a few minutes longer?”

Regis turns in his chair and meets Clarus’ eyes. Regis’ health isn’t too bad today, it’s unlikely either of them will be needed any time soon, and with the children occupied….

“I’m sure Ignis will be fine,” Regis says, pulling Clarus down.

 

Nothing untoward happens at Queen Sylva’s funeral. Noctis sleeps no more than usual. The Crystal continues to shine. Regis even manages to avoid any political clashes, despite the presence of Emperor Iedolas Aldercapt at the proceedings. Young Ravus, newly crowned King of Tenebrae, holds himself with a shaken sort of pride during the funeral.

In fact, the only noteworthy thing to come of the whole visit is that Noctis strikes up a friendship with Princess Lunafreya – even as they’re leaving, Noctis is promising to send her letters. Lunafreya smiles and waves at him, calls that she’ll be looking forward to it. They’ve hardly sat down on the train before Noctis has started writing.

Regis watches Tenebrae pass out of sight. He is growing tired.

 

For his eighth birthday, Noctis gets a new set of fishing tackle, a book of pressed flowers from Tenebrae, enough pillows to drown in, two more cuddly fish, and a tiny statuette of Ramuh, the Fulgarian.

 

Cor wakes up with his sword already in hand. The world feels familiarly unfamiliar, and he knows who it is standing shadowed in his bedroom doorway. Ardyn does _something_ and the world is cast into sharp relief, all jagged edges and light playing where there should be none. Cor can pick out the pattern on Ardyn’s clothes, his jacket, his waistcoat, his scarves.

“Cor,” Ardyn says, as he pushes off the doorframe and takes a step towards Cor, and another, and his smile is soft, like butter, and his words like honey, “sweet thing. You’ll tell me, won’t you?”

“ _No_ ,” Cor growls, _he can’t fail the King this time_ , and there’s no-one here save Ardyn he _could_ hurt, so he thrusts with his sword, and feels a savage sort of delight when Ardyn has to dance out of the way.

“Oh,” cries Ardyn, clutching his hand to his chest in mock hurt, “come now Cor, surely we’ve come far enough there’s no need for any unpleasantness!” Ardyn dodges another of Cor’s swipes. “I just want one question answered,” he continues, all but tripping over Cor’s chair, “one simple question,” and he suddenly smacks Cor’s sword aside with the flat of his palm, grabs Cor’s wrist and forces his hand still. “And I can ask _you_ ,” Ardyn says, looking Cor dead in the eye, “or I can ask Noctis.” His thumb rubs across Cor’s hammering pulse, gently. “It’s your choice.”

Cor tugs futilely at his wrist, but Ardyn’s grip is just as unbreakable as it has been before, and- he can’t send _Ardyn_ to _Noctis_. He can’t. He can’t.

“What question?” Cor asks helplessly, as Ardyn smiles up at him delightedly, watching his mouth form the words.

“I’m so glad,” Ardyn crows, “that you can see reason. It really makes everything so much _easier_.” He slides his cold hand up Cor’s arm, leans even further into Cor’s space. “Now, it’s really very simple. I just want to know one little, tiny thing. It will hardly take a moment.”

“Get on with it,” Cor snaps, trying to lean away from Ardyn’s face.

“Just tell me,” Ardyn says, breathily, “which of the Six was it this birthday?”

Cor frowns. It does seem a small thing. Inconsequential. It hardly seems to matter, but, if Ardyn needs to know so badly then… it must matter a lot. He shouldn’t say, should _lie_ but- if Ardyn goes to Noctis and sees the figurine-

“Ramuh,” Cor says, and Ardyn’s smile widens even further.

“There,” he says, “now was that so very hard?”

 

Cor wakes up with his sword already in hand. His room is dark, and cold, and empty.

Left, almost mockingly, over the back of his now righted chair, is the soft grey scarf from around Ardyn’s neck.

 

For once, Regis asks that Clarus wait outside while he speaks to Cor. Clarus can never bring himself to go far from Regis – not when they were just Prince and Shield, especially not now that they’re King and Consort – so he waits with the door shut, and does his best not to listen.

Cor shouts. He never shouts. But today he shouts, and Clarus cannot help but hear. “I _can’t_ ,” he’s shouting, voice clearly cracked and anguished. Regis must have given him permission to speak freely. Cor would never raise his voice otherwise.

Regis presumably says something in reply, because Cor falls silent for a moment. But then he speaks again, still loud enough for Clarus to hear even through the door. “I’m a _danger_ to you and your family. To the crown and the Crystal,” Cor says, and Clarus has taken a step towards the door before he can stop himself – gods only know how much it’s hurting Cor to say as much. “ _He_ can-”

“Shut up,” Regis says, and Clarus stops with his hand on the doorknob. He misses what Regis says next, and it’s meant for Cor anyway. Regis knows better how to comfort Cor than Clarus would, and… it will mean more coming from Regis anyway.

The silence drags on. When Cor finally emerges, his eyes are red and he won’t meet Clarus’ eyes. The scarf – Ardyn’s, abandoned in Cor’s room for some unfathomable reason – is crumpled in his hands still. He offers Clarus the barest nod suitable for their positions before he disappears down the corridor.

Regis appears in the doorway, leaning heavily on his new cane. He looks, if anything, even older than he did when he woke up that morning. “You heard some of that, I assume,” Regis says. Clarus nods, and Regis continues. “I managed to talk some sense into him. This whole thing’s got him shaken – feels like he’s _failed_ us, or some nonsense.” Regis sighs. “As if it couldn’t happen to any one of us. Was I any better at protecting Noctis that first night? Have any of us shown _any_ resistance to the magic Ardyn uses?”

Clarus shrugs. “We couldn’t interfere at Noctis’ fourth birthday,” he recalls, “even when you tried to use the Crystal’s power. And he seems able to come and go as he pleases.”

Regis sighs again and heads back into his office. “Well, enough of that. With any luck we won’t see the blasted man for _another_ four years,” he says.

Clarus forces a tired laugh, following close behind Regis, his hand low against Regis’ back. “If only,” he agrees.

 

Cor goes back to his quarters and shoves the scarf into the back of his wardrobe. Sometimes, over the next few years, he takes it out and looks at it.

He can never quite bring himself to destroy it.

 

Moving to the Crown City is both one of the best and hardest things Nyx Ulric has ever done. Galahd had been hit pretty hard a few years back when the fucking Niffs had invaded, and it’d never really recovered. The King had done his best afterwards, making sure people who’d lost their homes were resettled elsewhere or had enough money to rebuild, but it’d never quite been enough to make up for everything lost in those first brutal days. They’d at least avoided outright war, and Nyx never wants to know what the King did to get them that, but yeah. Galahd had never been the same after Niflheim’s ‘border skirmish.’

So he’d got out as soon as he could, even though it meant leaving friends and family behind, leaving behind his damn _home_ but fuck if it hadn’t been worth it.

It hadn’t been hard to find work; the Crownsguard was always recruiting, paid well, and… it kinda felt like Nyx was giving something back. Like he was _doing_ something, especially after what King Regis had done for Galahd. And sure, sometimes it meant getting yelled at by Captain Titus Drautos, or the Marshal or – and he’d only heard rumours of this happening – even godsdamned fucking Lord Amicitia if you _really_ fucked up, but Nyx _loved_ this job.

Did not even change for one minute the fact that Titus Drautos was a cockbiter and Nyx was absolutely prepared to say that to his face.

“Really,” Crowe says afterwards, clapping his shoulder, “I’m only amazed he didn’t give you punishment detail for longer.”

Libertus continues to make a sort of groaning noise. “You couldn’t keep quiet for two more minutes, Nyx. Two more minutes and he’d have been gone.”

“I stand by what I said,” Nyx says, still running mostly on adrenaline. Drautos had looked fucking _impressed_ with him for a moment there.

Crowe nods and says, “Could be worse too. He could’ve put you on _latrines_.” She and Libertus both make a face.

Drautos had in fact put Nyx on guard duty. For six weeks. Guarding one specific corridor. Due in part to its location in the depths of the Citadel, where no-one ever went, and partly because it didn’t actually seem to lead _to_ anywhere, practically every member of the Crownsguard called it the Fuck Off Corridor of Bad Behaviour.

Being assigned to guard it for _six weeks_ was a bit much. But, yeah, still better than latrines.

“Absolutely worth it,” Nyx insists, because Drautos _is_ a cockbiter, and he needed to hear it.

Libertus puts his head in his hands. “You’re going to die, and it won’t be my fault. I’m doing my best – aren’t I, Crowe? I’m trying to keep you alive, Nyx, but you’re just not _helping_. Your sister’s gonna kill me.” He’s probably only a couple of minutes from gently knocking his head against the wall.

“Eh, he’ll be fine,” Crowe says, flapping her hand, “he’s tough.”

And well, if anything good can be said about the Fuck Off Corridor of Bad Behaviour it’s that Nyx can’t exactly get in any _more_ trouble while he’s guarding it. He just stands at whichever end he feels like – not like it makes the slightest bit of difference – and waits for absolutely no-one to ever walk past him, because no-one ever walks past the Fuck Off Corridor of Bad Behaviour.

By the time Nyx is into his second week, he’s so bored he might actually die. He’s taken to trying to toss his knives the length of the corridor just to ease his fucking boredom for a few minutes – probably _not_ what Drautos meant when he told Nyx to guard the corridor, but Nyx hasn’t stabbed anyone yet. Well, uh. That he didn’t _mean_ to stab.

Anyway, yeah. Boredom, knife tossing. Nyx is flipping one idly, thinking he might just aim for the lightbulbs just so he has something to fucking _do_ when, miracle of all godsdamned _miracles_ , the door at the other end of the corridor opens.

A kid steps through. No more than ten or eleven, he looks up and down the corridor and then just stares at Nyx for a couple of seconds. Nyx stares back. The kid pulls at his own sleeve awkwardly, eyes flicking between Nyx and the floor. Nyx blinks. He can’t quite believe his eyes.

Prince Noctis, because of fucking _course_ it’s only the _Prince_ , says, in a very small voice, “I’m lost.”

“Uh,” Nyx says, intelligently. How does the Prince get lost in his own _Citadel_? “You… want me to help you find,” and Nyx panics for a second before choking out, “Lord Amicitia or… someone?”

The Prince’s lip wobbles. “I want my Dad,” he says, and Nyx hopes to Shiva he _does_ mean Lord Amicitia because if Nyx has to take him to the King he really _will_ die. Libertus will murder him.

“So,” Nyx says, opening the door _he’s_ standing next to, “it’s this way, your Highness.”

Prince Noctis sort of sidles over and just through the door. He jumps when it closes behind them, and- okay, this is bullshit. Nyx can’t see a kid looking so scared like this, even if it’s the _Prince_. He just shoves his hand out in Prince Noctis’ direction and isn’t surprised in the least when the kid latches on like Nyx is the only solid thing left in the entire world.

“Thank you,” the Prince mumbles.

Nyx grins at him as reassuringly as he can. “It’s no problem. We’ll get you back to your,” oh shit he’s gonna do this, “dad and you’ll be just fine.”

Prince Noctis smiles back, just a little. “Yeah!” They turn into slightly brighter, although still mostly unpopulated corridors. He squeezes Nyx’s hand as they head up a particularly windy staircase.

It’s a long walk. Feels even longer than normal with the Prince hanging off his arm, especially when they _do_ start passing other people. People Nyx knows. The royal chambers and, by association, Lord Amicitia’s offices, have the great benefit of being as far away from the Fuck Off Corridor of Bad Behaviour as they can possibly be. The Prince kinda seems to recognise where they are now, but shows absolutely no sign whatsoever of letting go of Nyx’s hand.

They walk past Libertus. He boggles at them. Nyx looks at him as they walk past. He feels like his face just says, _help me_.

Libertus does not help Nyx.

Nyx hears Lord Amicitia before he sets eyes on him. He’s saying, loudly, “… he can’t have just _disappeared!_ ” Nyx feels this absolutely sickening moment of horror, something like, _oh shit have I accidentally kidnapped the Prince_ , and then Noctis _finally_ lets go of his hand and bolts around the corner.

“Dad!” Noctis shouts, and then there’s more shouting and this is really probably the time for Nyx to just, fuck off back to The Corridor but someone grabs his shoulder and Nyx’s legs stop working as he’s hauled forward by, _oh gods,_ it’s fucking _Marshal Cor_.

The Marshal looks thunderous. Lord Amicitia looks… uh. Kinda hard to tell. He has the Prince clinging to his waist and babbling, and Nyx _just_ catches, “… and _he_ saved me,” before the Prince turns and points right at Nyx with a besotted look on his face.

Nyx throws his hands in the air. “I just led him back here! He- His Highness was lost!” The Marshal still looks… maybe not _as_ angry, but still pretty fucking terrifying.

“Oh?” Lord Amicita asks, and he sounds _indulgent_ as he looks down at his son. Maybe, possibly, Nyx _won’t_ die? “Where did you get to, Noctis?” The Prince sort of shrugs, and Lord Amicitia looks over at Nyx and says, “Well?”

Nyx stares into Lord Amicitia’s eyes and panics. He can’t tell him it was the Fuck Off Corridor of Bad Behaviour. Not in front of the Prince, and the Marshal and- oh, great, like five council members. The only thing that could _possibly_ make this worse is if the King turned up or, gods forbid, _Iris Amicitia_ -

“It’s the uh,” Nyx starts, “the corridor in the east wing, past the old library. Doesn’t really go anywhere,” uh, and there’s a light dawning in the Marshal’s eyes _and_ Lord Amicitia’s eyes, _both_ of them starting to grin at Nyx like they know _exactly_ why Nyx was in _that_ corridor. “Yeah,” Nyx trails off, lamely.

“I know the one,” the Marshal says, and yeah, he _definitely_ knows the Fuck Off Corridor of Bad Behaviour.

Lord Amicitia looks down at the Prince and asks, apparently mystified, “What on Eos were you doing down there?”

“I was lost,” Prince Noctis replies, as if that answers every single possible question. “And then, um….” He trails off and looks at Nyx with a sort of dawning… bewilderment. “I’m sorry!” the Prince suddenly cries. “I never asked your name!”

Oh shit. “Ulric,” Nyx chokes out, “Nyx Ulric. At your service, Highness.”

The Prince looks at him, absolutely delighted, and Nyx has this feeling that the Marshal’s laughing at him now, even with his hand still clamped around Nyx’s shoulder.

Lord Amicitia _definitely_ is. “Well,” he says, “we cannot thank you enough for finding Prince Noctis, Nyx Ulric. Marshal, see to it that Ulric’s properly rewarded.” The Marshal nods. Nyx can’t help himself from mouthing ‘rewarded’ to himself. “And,” Lord Amicitia continues, his eyes crinkling, “I would be most fascinated to hear how you ended up guarding that particular corridor. Later, perhaps. Noctis and I must get to lunch.”

“Yes, sir,” Nyx gurgles, miserably. The Marshal covers a snort.

The Prince waves goodbye to him, holding on to his _dad’s_ hand. Nyx is helpless to do anything but wave back.

“Come on, Ulric,” Marshal Cor says, eventually, “let’s go and have a chat.”

And that’s how Nyx gets promoted.

 

The week before Noctis’ twelfth birthday, both he and Regis start having terrible dreams about being eaten by a giant fish. This bothers Noctis far less than it does Regis; Noctis tends to wake up mildly alarmed, but then his face sets and he says, “I want to catch it! It was so huge, I wish you could’ve seen it!”

Regis just wakes up screaming.

He has a feeling that the Hydraean, Leviathan, is perhaps not entirely _pleased_ with the deal she made.

The day before Noctis’ birthday, local fishermen report increasingly strange behaviour in coastal fish. Additionally, something strange is happening to the tides.

Leviathan cannot manifest at the Citadel. It is too far from the ocean, too far from water. But she is certainly making her displeasure known.  
_  
Her_ statue is not small, though it is still beautiful. It’s large, and drips water, and the eyes seem to watch people as they walk around the room. Noctis _adores_ it of course; it always seems to bare its teeth whenever Regis comes too close.

 

It isn’t a surprise when Cor comes back to his quarters, and Ardyn’s there. He’s draped over Cor’s bed. Half of Cor’s bedclothes have been shoved to the floor, a pillow seems to have been thrown across the room for some reason, and Ardyn’s getting his boots all over Cor’s sheets.

“I’m not telling you anything,” Cor says, shutting his door behind him. No point in leaving it open, or calling for help. Regis had been right before; no-one else has shown any better luck in resisting Ardyn’s magic than Cor has.

Ardyn _coos_ and flaps one hand, leaning up on his elbows. “Oh, I’m not here for _that_. Any questions I might have had were answered after that little temper tantrum Leviathan threw – no, no, I’m here for something _far_ more entertaining.” Ardyn smiles, like a cat.

Cor frowns. “If you’re here to hurt the Prince-”

Ardyn _laughs_ , “No! No.” He runs his hand through his hair. “No, Cor,” Ardyn continues, “I’m here to see _you_.”

Cor’s frown only deepens. “You came to see… _me_?”

“Yes?” Ardyn tilts his head. “That is what I said. Are you perhaps a touch hard of hearing, Marshal?”

Nettled, Cor snaps, “I heard you.” He folds his arms. “Care to tell me why?”

“Oh, you know,” Ardyn replies, when Cor does not, in fact know. When Cor shakes his head, Ardyn makes a hurt noise and says, “I can’t visit a friend now and again! How cruel, Cor!”

“We’re not friends,” Cor tells him, for all the good it will likely do. He needs something to do with his hands. Something that _isn’t_ trying to punch Ardyn. Prior experience tells Cor that isn’t likely to end well.

“Oh?” Ardyn asks. His voice raises in pitch a little when Cor pulls off his uniform jacket and slings it over his chair. “Well, for someone who _isn’t_ my friend,” Ardyn continues, making another strange noise when Cor bends down to angrily pull off his boots, “you certainly took very nice care of my scarf.” Cor’s head snaps up. Ardyn’s holding the- the scarf. Grey, soft as silk. “Freshly laundered in fact,” Ardyn says, seeming to pull himself together a little. His mouth curls up in a smirk. “I’d long since imagined it destroyed, you know. Anyone else would have. But you kept it, all these years, and even had it _washed_ for me.” Ardyn sits fully upright on Cor’s bed and leans towards him, twisting the scarf around his fingers. “And now you say we’re _not_ friends? I think I’m rather hurt.”

All through that, Cor’s been frozen. One boot on, one boot off. Why _had_ he had the scarf washed? It had been looking sad and ratty after four years in his wardrobe. He hadn’t been thinking about it. And of course Ardyn went through his things before Cor turned up. Why wouldn’t he?

“What do you _want_ from me?” Cor asks, the words fairly ripping themselves from his mouth.

Ardyn gets off Cor’s bed. There’s this expression on his face; Cor’s breath sticks in his throat. Ardyn leans down, just slightly, and slides his fingers under Cor’s chin. They’re icy cold. They feel amazing.

“ _Guess_ ,” he says, his thumb brushing against Cor’s jaw.

 

Regis never does learn _quite_ how Noctis meets Prompto Argentum. He simply seems to appear one day, as if from nowhere, loud and effusive, but always unfailingly polite whenever Regis or Clarus arrive – Regis begins to linger just out of sight of the doorway to listen to young Prompto tell Noctis loud and improbable stories, because he has an unfortunate habit of clamming up as soon as he sets eyes on Regis.

Noctis figures him out pretty early on. Hardly a day seems to go by without Noctis sticking his head out of his room, and saying, “Dad,” in _that_ tone of voice, “can’t you go bother Gladio instead?” Invariably, Prompto’s somewhere behind him, looking alarmed and concerned to hear the _King_ being spoken to like this.

“No,” Regis today replies, “Gladio’s training with Cor, and weren’t you meant to be out with Iris today?”

“Dad,” Noctis _whines_ , “I’ve got a friend over.” He gestures vaguely in Prompto’s direction. Prompto looks about ready to expire, the poor lad.

Regis smiles at Prompto. Prompto turns white and dips into an outrageously low bow. It’s always been terribly interesting to Regis the effect he has on some people. “I’m sure he won’t mind tagging along,” Regis says. “Ulric has the car ready and waiting for you. Your sister’s getting impatient, so hurry along.”

“Ugh, _Dad_ ,” Noctis starts again, but Regis is already leaving.

Behind him he can hear Prompto start to say, “It’s cool, I really don’t mind, your sister’s nice and the _King_ kind of told us we had to-”

It’s _good_ to be King.

 

It’s Shiva next birthday. An enchanting little statuette; strangely, it reminds Regis of someone. He can’t quite remember her name.

There… there can be no counting on Ifrit. He and Clarus had realised that long ago. That Regis’ voice had managed to reach _five_ of the Six was impressive.

There are only four more years left.

 

Regis admits, quietly, when the moon is high in the sky and Clarus is near sleep, “It will be nice to rest.” Clarus’ hand tightens, alarmingly. His hand engulfs Regis’ now. Anyone would think Regis was twice Clarus’ age, not five years the younger.

“Don’t,” Clarus breathes, but Regis doesn’t say it to hurt him. Every day he gets weaker now. His fingers are bent and cracked – he can hardly hold a pen, most days. The face in the mirror is hardly one he recognises any longer. The Crystal’s magic does little to ease the pain in his joints, and his limp is often so bad that Clarus must all but hold Regis up as he walks.

“I am tired, Clarus,” Regis says. Clarus rubs his thumb over Regis’ liver-spotted knuckles, and says nothing. There is nothing else to say.

 

Niflheim invades Galahd. Again. There will be no negotiating with Emperor Aldercapt this time; though it is an extra strain to do so, Regis lends his power to some chosen few of the Crownsguard. Those who have shown particular promise or loyalty over the years. They are sent to do what they can, in the few years Lucis has remaining. They are sent to… to die.

They call this new unit the Kingsglaive, and name Titus Drautos its leader. After only a short time, Nyx Ulric requests a transfer to it; Regis is sorry to see him go, Noctis even sorrier. Regis can only hope Nyx comes back, alive and well, if only for his son’s sake.

The war marks the beginning of the end.

 

“Are you sure?” Clarus asks, for easily the twentieth time.

“Yes,” Regis says, and in the tone of voice that has ended a thousand arguments. He waves to Noctis, down by the Regalia. Someone, and he hopes he _never_ finds out who, has let Prompto sit in the driver’s seat. “They’ll only be gone a week.”

Iris scuttles past, clutching her absolute favourite moogle doll ever. Regis has never told her that he finds it hideous. She’s always adored the monstrosity. If any of the boys let it get lost in the wilderness, there will certainly be hell to pay.

“Are you absolutely _sure_ you’ve got everything?” Ignis is asking.

“Yes, dude, stop asking!” Prompto says. He tweaks the Regalia’s mirror a little _too_ harshly. Regis tries not to flinch. Kings don’t flinch.

“Underwear,” Ignis says, apparently ignoring Prompto, “toiletries, toothbrush-”

Prompto shoots upright in the driver’s seat and shouts, “Toothbrush!”

“Knew it,” Noctis says. Gladio fist-bumps him as Prompto rockets past them and back inside.

There is something absolutely mystifying about teenagers.

“Anyone else?” Ignis asks, mildly. Regis is routinely glad for Ignis’ existence. What would any of their children do without him?

“No, I packed theirs for them,” Iris says, still trying to shove her moogle into the trunk. There is clearly not enough room. “Gladdy, help me fit this in.”

“I can’t watch,” Regis says, but not watching doesn’t help when he can still _hear_ Gladio just _slam_ the trunk shut. “…. how is she, Clarus?”

Clarus gives Regis a look. “Are you _still_ sure you want to do this?”

Regis is just starting to reply to him when Iris shouts out to them from the car.

“Dad! Papa! We’re going!” She’s not even sitting _in_ the car properly. None of them have their seatbelts on, and Prompto’s still trying to find somewhere to fit in his toothbrush.

“They’re going to die, aren’t they?” Regis asks, waving back down to Iris. Noctis already looks half asleep, wedged between Gladio’s shoulder and Iris’ knee. Never could take that boy anywhere. It was a wonder, truly, that he managed to learn how to drive _without_ falling asleep.

“No,” Clarus replies, doing his best to grin. Only Iris is actually looking _at_ them. “Ignis won’t let them.”

Regis considers that for a long moment. Then, “Do… do you think he’s ever forgiven us for letting Noctis and Gladio shove him in that suitcase?”

Clarus pales beside him, and in the same moment Prompto _finally_ pulls out from in front of the Citadel. As they stand there on the steps, watching their children disappear in a car driven by someone who _clearly_ shouldn’t have passed his driver’s test, all Clarus can say is, “I suppose we’ll find out in a week.”

 

Noctis calls them an hour later. “I left my toothbrush behind,” he says, in lieu of ‘hello.’

Regis sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose. The ring slips on his finger and he has to push it back up, over his knuckle. “I’ll send Cor out to you. If you think of anything else you left behind, let him know _before_ he leaves.”

 

When Noctis is nineteen, he stops receiving letters from Lunafreya. He sends letter after letter after letter, but to no avail.

Though Regis, Clarus and Cor search for weeks, they can find out nothing on what might have happened to her.

 

They lose Galahd and other territories. The Kingsglaive are forced back, and back, and back.

“It won’t be long now,” Regis tells Clarus. Noctis’ birthday is not two months away.

 

(down near the Crystal, a great statue of bahamut begins to grow)

 

Regis has known how this would end for twenty years now. He has had- he has had time to tell them. He could have told Noctis a hundred times, a thousand times over. If not him, then surely Gladio and Iris deserved to know.

But each time he’s started to tell them, his tongue has grown heavy. The words have withered in his mouth. So they have come twenty years unknowing, and he hopes – oh, it is a foolish hope. But parents have so many hopes for their children, and he hopes that they will, in time, forgive him for keeping his silence. For not marring the happiness they had, fleeting though it was.

Noctis’ birthday party is not, in truth, to Noctis’ taste. But he is a man of twenty now, and nothing will do but for him to have a lavish celebration. So there are streamers and tables set with food, and even the throne room has been opened for the occasion. Regis has invited near everyone in the city to the Citadel, and even some who weren’t. His long absent Kingsglaive, including Nyx Ulric, have finally been dragged home. Ulric’s still in his uniform and looking out of place, but Noctis had looked pleased to see him, and that was enough for Regis.

They don’t have dancing – Noctis has reacted poorly to it ever since his fourth birthday – but it’s traditional to mingle, so as the moon rises Regis begins to wander amongst his subjects. Noctis is hidden in a corner, talking to Ignis and with Prompto’s arm around his shoulder. Gladio and Iris, shadowed by Cor, are at the table getting drinks. Safe enough, for the moment. Clarus walks a step behind Regis. Their progress is slow, even for a King. Regis’ joints have been getting even worse these past few years. The knee brace and cane do little enough to help anymore.

There are too many people. Regis turns slightly towards Clarus and murmurs, “I need to sit,” and Clarus manages to get him to a chair in moments. The press of bodies in the throne room only seems to grow. More and more of them want Regis’ attention, crowding around him.

“Clear some room!” Clarus shouts. He and Regis’ other councillors try to push back against the tide, but it hardly seems to work.

And then, the world changes.

It’s like… Regis is viewing the scene from very far away. The man who calls himself Ardyn Lucis Caelum stands by the throne. He has not aged a day in twenty years.

Staring up at him, as if hypnotised, is Noctis.

“Come,” Ardyn says, and his voice rings and echoes strangely in what the world has now become, “it’s time for you to sleep now.”

Noctis says nothing. He steps forward, and each step seems to take an age, heading towards the stairs. Prompto clutches at him, but Noctis shrugs him off. Ignis tries to pull him back but it does as much good as pulling a mountain. From somewhere, Gladio thrusts an arm in front of Noctis. Noctis simply brushes him aside. Even when Iris stands in front of him, all Noctis does is push her out of the way.

The world seems to get even darker. Regis feels… empty, suddenly. Bereft. The shadows in the room lengthen, grow, and before Regis is fully aware of it, people are screaming. Time suddenly snaps back, _he_ suddenly snaps back, and Clarus is hauling him upright as a daemon springs forward and all but cleaves a man in two.

It’s all madness – he loses sight of Noctis amidst the daemons and the panicking people. There’s blood on the floor, and he can’t run, can hardly fight, and-

“Papa!” Iris is suddenly clutching his arm, weeping, “I couldn’t, Noctis just, he wouldn’t, and I don’t know what’s going on-”

Cor’s just behind her, and the other children, and there’s no time to think-

“Regis!” Clarus shouts, behind him.

Regis pulls the ring off his finger, scraping it past his swollen knuckles, and presses it into Iris’ hand. He says to Cor behind her, “Get them out of Lucis.”

Cor just nods, and grabs Iris’ arm. He starts to pull her away.

“No!” she’s shouting, her and her brother. “Let me go! Papa!” She’s still screaming as Cor drags her through the doors, to safety. To whatever safety remains.

Regis turns away.

Noctis is nearly at the stairs. Regis takes a step forward, and another, and his knee _aches_ – beside him Clarus fights off another daemon, shield flickering wildly – and Regis has almost started to call out when he hears the _crunch_ of shattering bone and-

It is not man nor monster that steps forward to bar his way. Regis has no idea _what_ it is. It holds itself like a man, with sword in hand, but the armour is all daemon.

“Not one step further, _King_ Regis,” the thing says, in a voice twisted with hatred.

Regis doesn’t waste words, or time. He acts with what little magic the Crystal has left him; a sword for one hand, and a shield for the other. _Makes_ his protesting fingers curve around the hilt, though he can’t lift the shield properly. He ignores the pain when he moves, forces his prematurely aged body into action it hasn’t seen for decades. He’s faster, just, but this _monster_ has more power left to it than Regis does.

Regis catches one of its blows on his shield, but the shield shatters under the blow, and it all but breaks his arm.

“You’re _brittle_ ,” the monster mocks, when Regis is forced to duck and wince when his back protests, “a weak old man, with sick dreams of _grandeur_.”

And then, unexpectedly he’s lightning fast, aiming for Regis’ bad knee-  
_  
Noctis_ , Regis thinks, except it’s _Clarus_ who stands between him and the enemy instead.

“Clarus,” Regis whispers.

“If,” Clarus says, “you have no shield,” and he pushes the monster’s sword away, “then _I_ will be your shield.” An echo of the words he’d said to Regis, oh _so_ long ago now. It feels like yesterday. Clarus risks a glance down at him. “ _Go_ ,” he cries, hauling Regis to his feet and shoving him away, and Regis runs as best he can without his cane, for Noctis still on the stairs and Ardyn up above him.

Swords clang behind him. Regis does not look back. He cannot.

Noctis reaches the dais. He crosses to the throne and turns to sit. His eyes are blank, empty.

He’s almost there. He’s almost ther-

There is a sword sprouting from Regis’ chest. It hardly seems to hurt at all.

“Noc…tis….”

 

(noctis’ eyes clear for a moment as regis falls. he blinks once, and his arm starts to raise in alarm; it drops again, after a moment, and noctis’ eyes fall shut)

 

The _thing_ leaves, but Regis is not dead. Blood pools in his mouth. He can see, horribly, that Clarus is on the wall. His own sword is holding him up there. Regis reaches out to him, tries to summon the last of his magic. But his magic has failed him as his body as failed him, and Regis slumps, his hand curling uselessly. Clarus remains where he is. Regis cannot even-

Not enough. Not enough.

At least… at least the children got out. It… it will be nice… so nice… to rest.

His eyes fall shut.


End file.
